Regression

I hate mornings like this. I wake up and my muscles are burning like I've just played Slytherin for the House Cup and ran a mile afterward. There's a sticky, scratchy feeling all over my skin, like I've been sweating in my sleep. I smell like I have. I need a shower, badly.

Thankfully, I don't have to contend with the morning wood that has been the bane of my existence since puberty. I don't think I could live that one down if I met someone in the common room on the way to the showers.

Despite the burn in my muscles and other soreness, I feel happy, and relaxed. I push myself out of bed, searching for my glasses on the table beside me. Ron's still snoring across the dorm room we share. I find the glasses, put them on, stretch, and look down to my bare chest. A few more hairs have sprung up. I grin. Then I see the stain on my trousers.

Well, that explains a lot. I must have had a wet dream or something. Funny, though. I can't remember a thing, and something tells me I really want to remember. Judging by the way I feel, it had to have been a really good one. I pop the kinks out of my neck, run my hand through my unruly black hair, and reach for my bathrobe on the post of my bed. I throw on a fresh pair of pajama pants and dump the stained ones in the chute for the house-elves to clean. I wish getting myself clean were that easy. Try as I might, I've never been able to Scourgify or Evanesco an honest day's sweat off my skin. It just goes to show, magic can't do everything.

The common room is deserted, even for a Saturday. All of the early risers are already going about their day, and the late risers, like my lazy, snoring mate Ron, are still abed. I'm somewhere in the middle of the two, and the empty space between is mine. Despite the way things might seem, I value the quiet moments of solitude that can be elusive if you're the Hero who will defeat Voldemort. I don't crave the attention that Snape and Rita Skeeter and all those other idiots claim I do. I just wish for a normal life, a family. Possibly the destruction of everything evil, Malfoy included. Is that so much to ask?

Ever since Sirius and then Dumbledore died, I've withdrawn from everyone. Even my two best friends. Ron, ever the thick one, hasn't seemed to notice. Hermione does, but she's been busy herself. If I didn't know better, I'd say she's withdrawn as well. Things aren't so golden with the Trio, these days. I don't mind it, though. Like I said, I value my solitude. It makes it easier to think.

I slip under the shower spray, let the warm water beat down on me, wash away my thoughts and my regrets. For a minute, maybe more, I just lose myself in the feeling of calm, the only sound the rushing of water, the only sight the inside of my eyelids, the only smell that of steam and soap and the cleaning potions elves use to keep the barest hint of mildew at bay. It smells like deep dark caves and hot springs. It smells like home. I scrub the cleansing sand into my hair, soap my body, lift my sac, give it a good cleaning too. I grow half hard in my hand. I stroke myself lazily, I'm not a small bloke. One of these days, I'll show Ginny just how much I want her, how much I want a family with her. I can almost see the look of awe and respect for my size on her face the first time we... well. You know.

Considering she has six brothers, I'm sure it's nothing she hasn't seen before. I give up playing with myself and rest my hands on the cold, fogged tile on either side of the temperature knobs. I sincerely wish I could remember that dream I had, might be useful, now. I search through my head, trying to find it. I'm hit with a flash. It feels familiar, the broken image I come up with. Legs on either side of me, a warm body beneath me, the tense feeling in my shoulders as I hold myself above her... chocolate-and-topaz eyes swim up at me from the gloom. My breath catches. I know those eyes. Hermione. I was dreaming about Hermione.

I'm rock hard.

For Hermione.

Bloody hell.

When did this start? When did I want my best friend in that way? She's always been, well, Hermione. One of the guys, a walking brain, I don't know, annoying and bossy. I never really thought of her like that: creamy white thighs, curls spread out on a pillow, bloody hell! I stumble back into the wall with the force of my reaction to the turn which my thoughts have taken.

Dark nipples, she has dark nipples. I shake my head to block out the certainty with which my imagination stakes its claims. She tastes like sweet sea salt, smells like moss and heat and musk, buried there, head between her thighs, wails like a siren when she orgasms.

I sink to the floor as the dam bursts. Smells, feelings, sounds, images crowd and clamor for recognition. The taste of her mouth, her skin, the feeling of her shuddering around me, the bite of her nails on my shoulders. I dimly realize my eyes are leaking. Tears. I feel tears. I know what her tears taste like, why do I know what her tears taste like? It's a strange question to latch onto above all others.

"Please, your cock... in my pussy... please God, just--unh--shove it in my pussy, I'm begging..."

Her voice.

Am I going mad?

So many questions, so much certainty. Why does it feel like it happened before?

I am going mad.

I have to talk to her. Now. Dear Merlin, do I have to talk to her.

I fling my robe back on over the towel around my waist. Not really thinking, I transfigure my uniform out of the terry cloth. My lips twitch at how little effort it actually took, how little I had to think about it while thoughts of Hermione zoom around my head. And something insanely meaningless surfaces. She'd be proud of me for the little feat I've just accomplished. Hermione was always proud when Ron or I did something right.

I rush down to the Great Hall to see if I can catch her at breakfast. I'm afraid, afraid that she'll confirm what I'm hoping against. Afraid she'll laugh at me. Afraid I'll be on my way to the insanity ward before this is all over. But still.

I have to know.

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I pause halfway there, trying to catch my breath. I don't want any questions, not from everyone else. Don't want to see that gleam in Malfoy's eye that tells me he knows something's wrong with me and that he will find out, just to laugh. Just to use it against me when next we meet. I don't want to alarm Hermione just because I think something happened if it never did. I'm not stupid. I know everything I do is cause for gossip at this school. A hug from Hermione was all it took during the Triwizard Tournament to get the papers talking. Just about any show of emotion is fodder for the students at this school to draw conclusions about anyone.

For a second, I understand the Slytherin compulsion to dissemble. It's not a pretty revelation.

Hard breathing, not my own, comes from behind a closed door at my right. I stop. I listen.

"Draco, not so hard..." Pansy's voice whines out and sets my teeth on edge.

"Come on, bitch. You know you love it," Draco grouses out, grunting in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, my little slut."

I leave, immensely disgusted by their little display in the closet. Trust Draco to not care about anyone else but himself, a sentiment that shows in his sex life in spades. An echo of his command in my own voice catches me off-guard. It is a memory, of that I'm sure. I'm ashamed.

My need to speak to Hermione is reasserted.

She's not at breakfast, as I had thought. I choke down a muffin and some pumpkin juice and rush to check the library. I grow increasingly agitated as I can't find her in the stacks or at her favorite table. Madam Pince looks at me sourly over her horn-rimmed spectacles. I walk over to her counter.

"Has Hermione been in today?" I whisper.

She shakes her head and her sour face softens.

"Thanks," I murmur and leave.

I ask a few more students around school if they've seen her. She's nowhere. I find myself outside the painting to her Head Girl rooms. "Laurel Sulfate," I murmur and the painting swings outward. I hardly spare a glance at her cold hearth and warm neutral decor. I'm in front of her bedroom in an instant and have to stop myself from barging in. My knuckles hit the wood repeatedly.

"Who is it?" I hear her mutter sleepily.

"It's Harry."

I hear bedclothes rustling and her groan as she stands up. "I'll just be a minute, Harry. Go on and make yourself comfortable. There's cookies and juice in the ice box by the bathroom."

"Thanks," I reply and shakily grab for the orange juice she has stashed amongst the junk food horde in her charmed personal fridge. I sit heavily on the beige sofa before my knees can give out. My mind is racing through all of the things I need to say, trying to find the one thing above all others that won't make me seem like a total nut-case. I have quite a while to do it in I realize as I hear the shower running. She takes a while to brush her teeth and comes out looking fresh in a chocolate colored jumper and her Muggle jeans. She must have done a drying spell on her hair, because the ringlets that are pulled back and the curls that escape over her forehead to frame her face are completely dry. My own hair is still a little damp behind the ears. I need a trim, soon.

"What's up, Harry?" She sits beside me casually.

Confronted like this, I have no words. When did she get so beautiful?

"Harry..." she leans forward, smiling softly, to place a hand on my leg. Her manner one of concern and gentle prompting. I nearly jump out of my skin at the contact. Her brow furrows, the smile vanishes like it had never been. "What's wrong?"

"We're friends, right?" I start, haltingly. Her eyes never leave mine and she nods encouragingly.

"Right, Harry." She smiles. It's a beautiful smile. It takes my breath away.

"Just friends?" I murmur before I can stop myself. Something flits across her face. She's hiding something. I knew it.

"What do you mean?" She stammers, her hand gone from my knee. Her body language indicates she's withdrawing, closing up.

"I had a dream last night," I whisper.

"A--a dream?" She's nervous. Her eyes shift, look far away. She leans back, away and crosses her arms.

"I need to know if it was true."

She chuckles nervously. "What about?"

I have no idea how I can persist like this, I am confused and scared, but her reactions tell me so much, put me at ease. Give me the courage to ask the impossible. "About you. Us. Together."

Tension begins filling her up. "How, together... like in a park or something?"

"In bed." I state it flatly. She flinches. I sigh into the tension that grows between us. "Is it real? Did it happen?"

"Harry, what are you asking?"

"Did we shag, Hermione?" My patience is gone. I say it more forcefully than intended. I sigh again. "Because I can't remember the details of how it happened, just details about... it."

"You remember?" There's something fragile in her voice. Something that makes me want to hold her.

"Did I hurt you?" I whisper, dreading, knowing things weren't the way they should have been, if it happened.

"It's so complicated, Harry... You were sleep-walking..."

I grab her shoulders and shake her a little with each word. "Did. I. Hurt. You."

She nods. I release her and break down into some sort of depression. I feel like I've been hit by a lorry in the chest. "But..." she whispers.

"But what? What excuse could you possibly have for my behavior?" The threatening tears are evident as my voice cracks.

"But I liked it. Wanted it." She seems to collapse in on herself. Shame--it is palpable.

We sit in stunned silence. I'm looking at the fireplace, biting my knuckles as tears sting my eyes. She's looking at her hands.

"How long?" I ask aloud, startling both of us.

She shakes her head, bites her lip.

"How long have we been lovers?" I ask again, looking at the top of her bowed head.

"It wasn't you, Harry," she mumbles out. "You didn't do it, you weren't there. It was your body, but... I didn't want to tell you, ever. I thought you could just defeat him and it would be over and we could go back to the way things were... He always threatened to let you find out some way, to make you suffer like he made me suffer." The words were tumbling from her lips in a nigh incoherent rush. "I didn't tell you because I wanted to protect you, you have so little happiness in life. He takes everything away..."

"VOLDEMORT?" I explode. I can read between the lines, and it makes me sick. "You--I... Voldemort did this?" Dumbledore warned me, made me take Occlumency with Snape... warned me that it was a two-way window. But how could he take control of me?

She was shaking, sobbing, crying. "It never made me love you any less. I never blamed you, Harry. It was always Him. I never stopped loving you, never stopped trusting, only in the daylight. Only then could I be sure."

I groan. No matter what I'm feeling now, she's endured the worst of it. I grab her and pull her into my arms, let her sob into my chest. I'm crying right along with her. What kind of friend would I be if I pushed her away now? I should look at this the same way, like she had been raped by Voldemort, both in mind and body. I had no real part in this. I was just the means. A tool. A mindless puppet. "You should have told me..." I murmur into her hair. "We could have fought it, had Ron tie me down, anything to keep him away from you."

"I don't know why I let it continue... I felt helpless and alone. It made so little sense. I thought I was going crazy at first. We can't let anyone know." She looks up at me, a strange light in her tear-rimmed eyes. "Not Ron, not Ginny. No one."

I nod soberly, respecting her wishes. But the memories torment me. To know I am capable of this, that I was party to the acts that Voldemort performed on my best friend. My hand reaches into her curls. I stroke her scalp soothingly. She shifts and moans against me. "Oh, god..." She scoots back against the other arm of the couch, away, faster than the speed of light.

"What..." She's blushing, not looking at me. "What's wrong?"

"Harry, just go. I'll be fine..."

"Tell me, dammit, what is it?"

Her big brown eyes bore into mine, helplessly. "I want your body, Harry."

I swallow. Hard. I'm tempted to take her offer and go. The image from the shower calls me, though. I'm stuck fast and growing erect. I know what she feels like, what she tastes like... I let out a shuddery breath. "I want yours, too." I find the courage to admit.

"Why? I'm nothing special. Voldemort just did those things to torment us, not out of any desire for me."

"Hermione, I'm sorry if I never realized, never told you... you're beautiful. You were my best friend, like a sister to me. I never saw it."

"What do you mean 'were'? What am I to you now?"

"I don't know." I feel myself moving forward, toward her, to her end of the couch.

"What about Ginny?"

"I don't know." I'm reaching out, laying myself over her as she leans back from me. Her head is shaking in denial as my chest aligns itself with hers. The distance between us is closed; the bump in my trousers catches on the crotch of her jeans. Her eyes close in surrender to my familiar touch. I dive in.